FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Cold Blood

Chapter 16

Forced Perspective

A Story By

Onyx Tao

[ This story is licensed under the Creative Commons

Attribution Noncommercial Share Alike 3.0 License

Copyright 2008 by Onyx Tao

](%5C)http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/

It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Bruises covered Markus from the yellowing around his left eye to the red - and soon to be black - around his left calf. He'd been repeatedly slammed into the floor - fortunately covered by a thick, rough carpet, or what were now bruises would have been broken bones. Of course, he'd given better than he got.

He wasn't sure what the minotaurs were looking for; his last three fights had been more about pure endurance than any kind of skill. Markus was a legionnaire - had been a legionnaire, at least, but so had the others he'd fought. They were tough. By definition a legionnaire was tough. Markus was just lucky he was tougher. And that the minotaurs had them wrestling - no punches, no blows, they'd been told. It was a sport, apparently, and it had rules, however hard those rules might be on the humans who competed in it. Break the rules, and you lost the round.

And Markus had wanted to win. And not just because he liked the wrestling.

They'd been bought, fifty of them, from the disaster at Mog Ford. As a group. And then a cream-red minotaur had, very briefly, told them why they'd been bought. Feral wrestlers, he explained, were a novelty. They might be good, they might be bad, it wouldn't matter in the first few bouts. Of course, if they wanted to be kept, well, they better learn how to be good.

All of them would compete that night, in a grand tourney, competing for wins. After their second loss, they would be out of the tourney. They wanted, the minotaur said, to win. No wins, and they would be docked and sold as novelties. Eight wins - no losses, and they would be a prize wrestler, well-treated, trained to compete in further bouts. In between, it depended on how they impressed the judges. They'd be auctioned, and if there was a buyer, they'd be a wrestler, too.

If there wasn't a buyer - they'd face the same fate as those who won nothing. Naturally, the more wins one accumulated, the more interested buyers would be. How to get those all-important wins? The judges had the final say. Talk back to a judge, move on an opponent before being told to, use fists or anything a judge said not to - and that would be a loss. Not a win for your opponent, but a loss for you. "And after the second loss - you will have no further chance to win," the minotaur finished.

Markus hadn't expected him to ask if there were any questions, and he hadn't. He'd just selected the first two combatants, announced the match, and the night had started. Markus himself had fought next (and won), rested for a while, and then fought again, winning again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The last three bouts were more about stamina than strength; he'd been pummelled and beaten, his muscles ached with the torture of forcing himself to hold just a little longer, just a little harder. But he won. Each time. Somehow.

And then it was over. His opponent was picked up in a Greek babble of recrimination and then he was picked up, too, by the huge red-furred arm of the red minotaur. "We have a winner," the minotaur announced loudly in Latin, and then repeated it in Greek. And then he was back down on the mat - not too hard - and the babble of Greek rose up around him as a couple of the minotaurs were arguing. The conversation, pitched in deep minotaur voices, was still fast, and hard to . After a minute or so, the two just left, and the red minotaur's muzzle twisted strangely.

"Do you speak Greek?"

Markus shook his head. "Only a little," he said hesitantly, in Latin. Technically, it was even true, Markus thought. He almost never spoke Greek, not anymore. He spoke it very little; Latin was what he spoke. Now, if the minotaur had asked him if he could speak Greek, well, then he'd just have to lie. If he wanted to escape - and Markus did, very much - then he needed every advantage he could get, and if the minotaur thought he didn't know the local language, then that was an advantage. It was like wrestling, in that regard.

The creature shook its head. It was surprisingly humanlike, Markus thought, if a human had a horned bull head and a thin pelt of dark red hair. The muscles the hair outlined were certainly human - or they would have been, if they were smaller. The chest and shoulders were massive, and Markus wondered just how large a maul this minotaur could use. The stomach was flat under the gauzy white tunic, so transparent he could see the red pelt beneath the flowing vine embroidery. "I'm your owner, human. Address me as 'Master.'"

"No - " the blow sent Markus spinning across the mat, and the minotaur was towering over him when he opened his eyes - there was a difference, Markus thought, between a human and a minotaur. The bull-creature was hooved, and its muscled lower leg was subtly different that a human's. Markus wondered briefly if ... but no, it seemed unlikely. And then he realized that the minotaur was talking again. Talking. Damn. What had he missed?

"I don't need you to talk, human. Nor do I need you to have teeth. _ Understand? _"

Markus nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Good," the minotaur said, and his attention shifted back to the others, joining the fast-moving Greek conversation. Damn. Markus had thought he was fluent; but even so, he couldn't pick up more than a few words in the fast-paced babble, dinner, ghostwork, money and tomorrow. Something about an appointment, he thought ...

And then a sweet-smelling cloth was wrapped around his head, fuzzing the already hard to follow words and it only took a moment for Markus to realize that it wasn't the cloth blocking his ears and he tried to dislodge the cloth, get the cloying smell away from him before.

The voice that came to him was very low, very quiet, and it sounded ... near. Very near. A whisper, and Markus fought the remaining mugginess to open his eyes - and discovered he couldn't. He was wearing some kind of hood. He shook his head, on the small chance he might dislodge it, and was completely unsurprised when that failed. Markus tried to move, only to find he was restrained. At least he wasn't laying down; he was resting on some kind of bench, but his arms and legs were - constrained. It didn't feel like rope, or metal, but ... cloth? He pulled on it, and then a little harder, when he realized that he'd been tied to himself. Trying to free his leg just pulled his arm in that much tighter. Pulling on both of them - nothing. Whatever it was, it was secure. Damn, he thought. He'd worry about it later.

"????? ????????," the words were barely breathed. "? ?????? ????? ???? ???? ?? ?????????" A pause. "Latin?" The voice was male, and it sounded like he was less than a foot away.

Did he speak Greek, or just Latin, Markus translated mentally. "Yes," Markus said, to the single word of Latin, and the word was surprisingly loud in the quiet. It must be a small room, he thought.

"????? ??? ????????????? ????????? ??? ?????? ?? ????????. ?? ????????? ?? ?? ?? ???????..." the voice breathed. "Quiet. Silence. Talk is dangerous."

"Why?" Markus said, more quietly.

"He does not like humans to talk," the voice said, even more quietly. Markus had to strain to hear him. "??????????? ... remember ... no. Remind him too much, and he'll ..." the voice paused. "Cut the throat. Not to kill. Something that lets you speak. It won't hurt, but ... you'll never speak again."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"No. ????? ?? ??????." the voice said. "I can speak."

Markus's internal glow of cleverness at concealing his facility with Greek evaporated suddenly, replaced by a dull red blush of stupidity. "I ..."

"You just woke up, yes," the voice whispered. "I'll tell you what I can, but don't remind Him that we talk. He's just as likely to cut me along with you."

"Sorry," Markus said, quietly, abashed. "You're talking about the red minotaur?"

"????????? Red? That's Him, yes. He's the only red one I've seen. Not that I've seen many ..."

"So what does he do with us?"

"Humans? Me? Or you?"

"You and me, I suppose."

"He enters me in wrestling matches," the voice said. "And rewards me when I win."

"And if you lose?"

"He doesn't reward me for losing, no," the voice said. "But ... if he thinks I did my best, then he's surprisingly philosophical about it. ??????? ???????. I usually win." and somehow that was said with neither a great deal of pride, nor humility; it was just a fact.

"I beat eight others to win a match, before he ... what did he do?"

"He's an apothecary. A grandmaster apothecary, as minotaurs rate those things, although ... I don't think they use that title for an apothecary." the voice said. "So he gave you a sleeping draught of some kind. You were bruising up pretty badly - you went through eight bouts?"

"Yeah."

"He only fights me - I mean, puts me into a bout - once a week or so," the voice said. "But the training sessions - his training of us - I don't know - but you're looking better. You're covered in ... well, a bruise lotion, I suppose. It works, and your skin is fading to yellow - the bruises, I mean. It's got a distinctive smell. Sort of mint-sage-sour. Are you sore?"

Markus shook his head. "No," and he was surprised to realize it was true. "I do feel a little sticky, though."

"The lotion gets sticky as it dries," the voice said. "Tag probably has instructions to wash it off, and maybe reapply it. It depends on how hard you got battered."

"Tag?"

A soft laugh answered him. "Maybe he's going to train you as a wrestler. He keeps me - and now you - in his private rooms. Usually locked up here, when I'm - when we're - not training."

"He sort of said ... the winner of the fights would be a wrestler."

"Then he's either training a replacement for me or he's adding another wrestler to his stable," the voice said.

"I'm Markus."

"Not for long," the voice said. "He'll give you a name."

"He gave you one?"

"Yes," the voice said hesitantly.

"What?"

A moment of quiet, and then, with a puff of soft breath, "????? ."

"Why ..."

"It pleases him to have me tattooed like a ????? ... a zebra ... Every time I win a bout, he has a little more of the pattern completed. It's ... it's about four-fifths done. He says another hundred wins or so and it will be complete. You know what a zebra is, right?"

"I've heard of them. Black and white striped horses, right? But you speak Latin, so before that ..."

"I don't want to discuss before that," Zebra interrupted, his voice rising a little to cut Markus off, and then quieting again. "So ... he'll give you a name, and then ... he'll train you. He's trained others. He's always ... he's sold them off."

"Sold?"

"Fighting humans is a big minotaur entertainment."

"We wrestle minotaurs?"

"No, we'd lose if we fought them. Having humans fight. Each other. You against me, for example. They bet ... like a ... uh ... ???? ???????. A dog fight."

"You're from the Empire, too."

"I don't want to discuss it."

"Sorry."

"We got captured ..."

"I don't want to know," Zebra said, softly, quickly.

"All right," Markus said, puzzled.

"There's another thing," Zebra said, his voice still a whisper. "I've been trying to think if it would be easier if you knew or didn't, but ... you might as well know."

"That sounds bad."

"Maybe," Zebra said. "You haven't seen any female minotaurs. Right?"

"No, but ..."

"There aren't any. I know, it sounds ... uh ... ??????."

"Crazy?" Markus guessed.

"Yes," Zebra agreed. "But there aren't any."

"Then how ..."

"I don't know. I think they use women - or cows. I'm not sure. I haven't asked."

"Cows?"

"It would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose ... I can see why you wouldn't want to ask."

A light snort from Zebra answered him. "He comes in drunk, or something like it, from time to time. And sometimes he brings a friend."

"A human woman?"

"Another minotaur," Zebra clarified. "And ..."

"And what?"

"Well ..."

"This is what you didn't want to tell me?"

"Sometimes ... often. He has me join them. It's ... it's not like I have a choice."

"No," said Markus, not sure what to say. He'd had daydreams ... thoughts about what could happen if the minotaurs were less ... less formal. Less standoffish. More ... well, animal. Suddenly his harmless fantasies seemed ... less harmless. "No human would, not against ..."

"And I want to." Zebra said that almost defiantly.

How long, Markus wondered, had Zebra been here? How long would it take to tattoo a zebra pattern onto a human? And ... "I understand," Markus said. "Really."

"So you've ..."

"Been with other men?" Markus made the whisper light, the comment off-hand. "Oh, sure. I have to admit I've been thinking about minotaurs, too, although this isn't really what I'd been thinking."

"It'll be easier for you. And yes. They're as large as you think," Zebra said. "Larger."

"So they ..."

"Use us. Yes." There was a short silence, as Markus thought about just how a minotaur might use him. And how it might hurt.

"And ... the wrestling. We ... we're expected to fuck the loser."

"Nobody loses on purpose?"

"????!" A moment later, Zebra added, "I don't think so." And then, after another short silence. "It would be a bad idea, I think. They ..."

A slight click - a door, Markus wondered - cut him off.

"Tag!" Zebra said, and slipped back into Greek for a one-sided conversation; an almost-inaudible murmur of Greek interspersed with short pauses. Markus translated mentally, as Zebra asked where Master was - still eating? Training? Could he take off - no? The new one doesn't speak Greek. I've warned him, yes. No, I don't know - I don't want to ask him. It's probably better if we wait to see what Master calls him.

Markus twitched as something touched him - a warm, wet cloth, he realized a moment later, wiping him down, and a soft watery sound as the rag was dunked back into - a bucket?

"Tag doesn't know Latin," Zebra finally said. "I asked if he could take off your hood, but he's been told not to."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't know."

"Does he have a name?"

There was quiet for a moment, and then Zebra whispered some more Greek to Tag. I think I should tell him Master's name. A negatory grunt came from the direction of the cloth, and then more - He should know. It's not as if - and that was interrupted by another negatory sound.

"Tag thinks I shouldn't tell you. You shouldn't use it - ever - not to him, not to his friends. It would get you into trouble ... and right now, the only place you might have learned it would be me, so that would get me into trouble, too." Zebra paused, whether to reflect, or watch Tag, Markus couldn't tell. "But I understand why you want to know."

"I don't want to get you into trouble."

"Chelm."

A hand slapped him, and water ran down him as there was a gurgle of protest. Zebra said something soothing in Greek, and then sighed. "He's really unhappy I told you."

"I thought he only spoke Greek?"

"He's mute, not a ... ????????"

A mild gurgle answered that, and Tag followed it with a quick, apologetic, stream of Greek. He wanted to know; it will be easier. And I was saying you weren't an idiot.

"He's not stupid?"

"Yes. Stupid. He's not, not at all."

"Oh. Sorry. Er, ???? ?????????"

A hand - Tag, presumably - patted him gently, and kept washing him.

"You do speak Greek!"

"I have a few phrases. It's always good to know how to say you're sorry. I don't really speak it, not really."

"???????? ??? ??????!"

"Not by much ..." Markus fell silent as the door opened again, and heavy footsteps approached him. Both Zebra and Tag were silent, but he hardly needed the silence to tell him that the minotaur - Chelm - had walked in.

The voice sounded deeper than he remembered; maybe the minotaur was closer to him. "Good morning, Zebra. Feral." A fast stream of Greek. Spiro is here. Tag, take Zebra and get him ready - Spiro will be taking him for a day or two. He'll look over Zebra first, and then show him in here.

Clicks and snaps followed, with softer footsteps, and the soft clack of a door closing ended them.

"I had thought," the minotaur's rumble said, "to keep you with Zebra for your first week, but ..." and the voice was silent for a moment. "So." A hand held his head, and the hood was lifted off -

Markus squinted against the light, and then relaxed as he realized there was no need. Light - sunlight - filtered in through a gray gauze curtain, and he turned his head slowly, to see the room. His first impression was that it was dark, because everything was the dull, monochromatic gray of twilight, but another moment showed him that everything was a matching shade of dull gray. The dark red minotaur - Chelm - stood out like a like a glowing ember in ashes.

Markus himself was chained like a dog - with what looked like steel chains - to a leather-padded bench. Gray leather, on gray-stained wood, the color matched perfectly. Nor did the match end there; the floor was more of the same gray-stained wood, with thick, comfortable-looking rugs. The light was good enough to see that even the rugs were embroidered, but Markus didn't see the point. The rug and the stitchery were the same dull gray, fading into the gray floor just as the gray floor faded into the gray walls - which were covered in some kind of ... paintings? Pictures? Some kind of tiny repeating flower and vine motif - and yet all in the same lifeless shade of gray.

He glanced back at the minotaur - Chelm - almost expecting the color to have leeched from him as well, but Chelm was dressed in a simple cream-colored tunic and pants, with a soft pastel leaf-green robe. What kind of creature would have a room like this?

"This is your home, feral," the minotaur said in his deep burring voice. Markus thought he could feel the words reverbrating in his bones. "I have not yet decided what to name you."

"My name is Markus," and a jolting blow knocked the wind out of him before he could quite finish.

"Do not talk unbidden," the minotaur growled angrily. "Ever. That ... name ... belongs to a life that is past. Over. It will not help you in this one. Nod if you understand."

Markus didn't move.

"Apparently you don't know how to nod," the minotaur said with a slight tone of amusement. "Like this." A massive hand rested on the top of his head. Markus resisted the pressure for a moment, but his head shifted down. Even if he had the strength to resist the minotaur, kneeling on all fours as he was, he didn't have the leverage to resist.

"Good," the minotaur said. "Now, try it by yourself."

There was something exquisitely humiliating about it; nodding just because a minotaur demanded it, locked into a sitting position, not allowed to speak ...

Markus nodded.

"Good," Chelm repeated, in almost the same tone. "Now. It is axiomatic that ferals are full of pointless questions, but nevertheless, it is true that you need to know a few things. First. You now belong to me. That means you will never be hungry, nor cold. I will see to your care should you be hurt, or ill. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Markus said, and he thought he saw the minotaur flinch.

"That was not an invitation to speak, feral," the minotaur said warningly.

Markus nodded.

"Second. You will be productive; there will be meaning to your life. Previously, you were a soldier - a warrior, in a human way, but humans are poorly suited to that profession. I will train you as a wrestler. You will compete against others, and you will win." The minotaur chuckled briefly. "You have talent - or training - of your own, as evinced by your successes last night. Couple that to a serious regimen of instruction, and you will be ... as successful as my Zebra is, I think. And that will please me, both to see you succeed, and the ... other advantages of possessing a top-ranked wrestler.

"You will learn the rules of wrestling. It is not in my interest to have you or your opponent damaged during a bout, and so there are things that ... may not be done. Holds, moves, targets, that are ... off-limits, to prevent any fatalities or disabling injuries. Let us test your understanding again."

Markus waited.

"That is your cue to respond, feral," Chelm said.

Markus nodded.

"Very good. Now, it has been some time since you ate, I think, and I believe I mentioned that you would not go hungry."

Markus nodded again. Breakfast turned out to be more oatmeal, and scrambled eggs with onions and greens cooked into them. Markus was grateful to see something beyond the ubiquitous oatmeal, and the eggs were delicious.

While he was eating, another minotaur - black with splotches of white - walked in quietly, and began speaking Greek. "Good morning."

"Spiro! How is he?"

"I take it your new trophy-to-be doesn't speak Greek?"

"No."

"Zebra's not doing good. He's not young. And ... the side-effects are starting to take their own toll. I'm sorry."

Chelm nodded. "I know. I can see the spasming. Would another blood replacement help?"

"He just had one six months ago."

"That's not what I asked."

"I hate to be indelicate, but ... can you afford that?"

"Yes."

"I have to ask, you know that. I hear you're taking lessons from Kanail. Three times a week!"

"Where did you hear that?"

"There's talk, Chelm. You're quite notorious."

"My father is notorious. I'm nobody."

"You should have a position. You're a warlord. And then those lessons would be paid for. And where are you getting the money? I know you're not taking money from your father."

"Hiring me is a political statement that ... not many are eager to make, Spiro. And ... beyond receiving assurances that I can pay you for your services, my finances are really not your business."

"Well, there's an opportunity. The council is putting together an Ambassadorial Guard troop, Chelm. It's a short-term thing. It would be perfect for you. It's to safeguard the visit of the Lord of Appeal."

"The ... who?"

"The Lord of Appeal. An Ouroborous mage."

"That's ... that's not an Ouroborous title, Spiro. Or, at least not one of the major ones. Their mages step into existing titles with existing responsibility. So ... it's one of the four remaining mages, it must be. Which one?"

"I never knew you knew so much ..."

"It's got to be either the Lord of Waves or the Lord of Bones. Probably the Lord of Waves, the Lord of Bones is roughly the counterpart of Lord Chimes, and I can't see his leaving Ouroborous. Anyway, I doubt having a politically suspect warlord as part of a - what did you call it? An ambassadorial guard? - would be helpful. They'd think I was a council spy."

"And they think anyone in the guard wouldn't be a council spy?"

"For my father, I mean. Spiro, look, I'm not employable, I've been told as much. I called you hear to look at my new feral, and see what you could do for Zebra - another blood flush. And take the opportunity to extend the stripes. That should cover the flush."

"I know, and I would, if you'd let me use char black, but I can't find any iridescent black ink to ..."

"Match, yes, I know, you said that before." Chelm walked over to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled out three jugs. "Fortunately, I'm a good listener. Black ink, blue ink, and green ink. All iridescent. About a quart of each."

"Where did you get iridescent inks? I've been ..."

"Looking in the wrong places," the red minotaur said. "Possibly I have some contacts you don't."

"If you're dealing with clan Ungoliant than you're .."

"I suggest you don't want to know where I got these," Chelm said quellingly.

"Fine, fine. I don't. Are you sure it's safe? I mean, do you ... know ... it's good?"

"I trust my source on this. It's ready to tattoo with." Chelm said. "So it's already cut with grain spirit. It's not the pure color, but it's not adulterated with anything unusual, either."

"That's fine." agreed Spiro. "Just fine. The black alone pays - more than pays - for the tattooing and blood replacement, if ..."

"You can keep what you don't use. Three thousand suns for the other two. And I want you to inspect this one."

"For the black, done. But I only want to buy the blue. Does fifteen hundred seem fair?"

"Very fair, but I've got no idea where I'd sell it if not to you. So it's either both or neither."

Spiro huffed, and then sighed. "Fine. Three thousand. I'll find someone to sell it to, or use it myself. Eventually."

"And the feral?"

"An examination?"

"And treatment, for the small stuff. I want to be certain he's in good health. No progressively degenerative blood conditions, for example."

"Unlikely," Spiro said. "I'll have to take a blood sample, though, if you really want me to check."

"I really want you to check," Chelm said dryly. "Feral." and he had switched back to Latin. "Your food was good, I take it?"

Markus nodded.

"I mean, beyond merely acceptable. It was sufficient, and tasted good?"

Markus nodded again.

"Excellent. My companion is going to touch you - and you will hold still while he does so. Or you will be immobilized, and I promise you I will be displeased. He is not going to hurt you, merely ... examine you closely.

Markus nodded again, and he watched the white-splotched minotaur's attention shifted to the human. True to Chelm's word - and the conversation he'd overheard and pretended not to understand - it did seem like he was being looked over by a healer. An animal healer, specializing in humans. And Spiro was thorough, starting at his feet - "Rash. Flaking skin. Bad odor. Nothing serious. A couple of pedicures and sulfate rinses should clear up the skin. I think he wore boots. Nothing is worse for skin than clammy, hot coverings."

"If you're planning to have him tattooed - or was that just an excuse for Zebra's treatments?"

"No," Chelm replied. "Not just an excuse. I like the look."

"Well, if you're going to do anything that major to this one, you'll have to get rid of this hair. So you're planning on a depilatory?"

"Yes."

"Just remember it's toxic," Spiro said, running a finger along Markus's leg. "It will irritate the skin, and make it photosensitive while it recovers. Keep him out of direct sun. It could fade the tattooing, anyway."

"I did Zebra in sections, for just that reason. And I don't intend to keep him out in the sun."

"That's fine, but he ..."

"Needs some sun, yes, I know, Spiro. And greens. And meat. And air. And water. How many times have you given me this lecture? How many humans have I kept?"

"Sorry. I just fall into it. What are you going to do to him? I'd think tiger-stripes, but ..."

"No, that's too close to Zebra's patterns. I haven't decided yet."

His hair removed and tattooed, Markus thought. Better to escape sooner than later. Much sooner. He flinched as Spiro reached his crotch, and pulled - carefully - his foreskin back.

"Clean," the minotaur reported. "Surprisingly so. You wouldn't believe ..."

"I don't want to hear what you've found infesting feral humans," Chelm said with a note of distaste. "I already had Tag check this one for ... external passengers, and he was clean. Thankfully."

"You'll want to give him a mild vermifuge anyway," Spiro said, feeling Markus's balls, rolling them around in their sack.

"I guessed as much. What do you recommend for humans?"

"Roundroot and barbates."

"That's your idea of mild_? Barbates?_"

"The roundroot will keep him from throwing up," Spiro offered.

"Fine, fine," Chelm said. "Fernseed for the cramps. Will that interfere?"

"Shouldn't," Spiro said after a moment's consideration. "Actually, that's a pretty good idea."

"Roundroot, fernseed, barbates. A sulfate rinse for his feet. Are his balls fine, or are you just playing with them?"

"I'm looking for irregularities," Spiro said. "Growths. It's uncommon, but you did say you wanted a full ..."

"Yes. I'm sorry," said Chelm, not sounding sorry.

"They're in good condition. Are you planning to stud this one?"

"Maybe," Chelm said. "If there's any demand."

"You could have made a fortune on Zebra ..."

"Not if anyone knew about his blood," Chelm snapped angrily. "They wouldn't thank me for adding that to their lines."

"You think it's inherited?"

"Trand thought so," Chelm said. "It was too ... subtle, I suppose, for him to fix. The reactions of life, he called it, something that the Creators could manipulate, but not us. Something wrong that far down can't ... what are you looking at?"

"Nothing, nothing. His back is fine, his organs feel fine," Spiro said. "There's a lot of hair to take off, though."

At least, thought Markus, that explained why the minotaur had been pummelling him. This felt horribly like his uncle going over a new goat. It was, he thought ruefully, exactly like that. Exactly.

"I'll worry about that," Chelm said firmly.

Spiro was quiet as he felt his way around Markus's arms, and then around the neck. "Fine, all fine. Head's fine ... are you going to leave the hair here?"

"Why? Do you want it?" Chelm asked, innocently.

"No! I ... No. I was wondering."

"It's a little long for my taste," admitted Chelm. "But I've never cared for bald, either."

Spiro sighed. "I need better light, and I need him to turn over."

"Tell him to turn over. He's feral, not stupid."

"You've got him chained down, Chelm."

Chelm blinked lazily, and shifted his stance. "Look again."

Markus managed not to look until Spiro's shocked "_ How _ did you do that?" Markus looked down, to see the chains neatly undone, the five locks now sitting open against the base of the stand. He looked back up at Chelm, who was grinning. "Lessons with Kanail. Am I getting good?"

"Very," Spiro said, and sounded a little shaken. "I didn't feel a thing."

"Lessons with Kanail," Chelm repeated. "I am good, Spiro. Honestly. I'm not training with Kanail out of misplaced pride - I really do need that level of instruction."

"You should be the one giving lessons," Spiro said, still sounding a little stunned. "I didn't know you could ... that anyone could do that. Without being felt_._"

"There's a trick to it," Chelm said. "It's just ... a very difficult trick."

"Got any more?"

"Well ..."

Markus was looking at Chelm when it happened. Chelm's face tightened a little in concentration, and the minotaur twitched. The large form blurred, and then was gone.

"Chelm?" asked Spiro, after a moment, and the white-splotched minotaur seemed to concentrate. He spread his hands wide, as if they could detect some trace of the huge creature that had - seemingly - just evaporated into air. "Chelm? This ... Chelm!"

A loud thud accommpanied the collapse of the roan minotaur onto the floor. "Hard ... harder than it looks," Chelm said, gasping. "I don't think I did it right. Serves me right for trying to ... to show off."

"Lurking. I've heard of that, but ... I couldn't feel anything. How did you do that?"

"I can't tell you all my secrets," Chelm said, his breath evening out as he got up. "So, turn the feral over. Get on with it."

"Right. Turn over," Spiro instructed, switching to slightly Greek-accented Latin. "Lay on the bench." He watched critically as Markus complied. "Open your mouth." Spiro looked down, and then over at Chelm. "You may want to close your eyes. I'll be putting my fingers in your mouth, feral, and you don't want to know what will happen if you bite."

"No," agreed Chelm.

"Could you angle that mirror - put a sunbeam right into - yes. Thank you, Chelm." The roan minotaur had adjusted the mirror to throw the light directly into Markus's eyes. "Teeth are always the worst with ferals. They don't clean them properly, and ... hmmm. Well, two of them need pulling, at least, and the gums are swollen. And red. See? Fortunately, I don't do that kind of work. You'll have to take him to Aus."

"I'll see if he can come ..."

"No, take him to Aus. I mean, he's got everything set up in his workshop. Lighting, tools, everything."

"I see."

"He's in fine shape for a feral," said Spiro, standing up and wiping his fingers on a cloth. "All things considered. All of them need teeth cleaned and pulled, if they still have teeth, so it's not as if that's a real surprise."

"I didn't know that."

"Wasn't Zebra feral?"

"Yes. But I got him second-hand. He'd already been seen to."

"Oh? Someone must be sorry to have sold him."

Chelm chuckled. "I don't think so." He turned back to Markus. "Feral, you're in decent health."

Except for my teeth, apparently. Markus nodded.

"But your teeth need to be cleaned," Chelm went on blandly, "and we'll see to that tomorrow, or the day after." The minotaur did not, Markus noted, mention Spiro's recommendation that at least two be pulled. Or the tattoos. Or the hair removal. Or the - what was it? Vermifuge? What was that?

Oblivious to Markus's thoughts, Chelm continued. "In the meantime, we'll see about training you. Follow me."

Training!

Markus had imagined it would be similar to Legion training - this is how you hold a sword, this is how you dig a ditch, a latrine, a rampart, today we're taking a short fifty-mile jog - bring your kit. Only, applied to wrestling. Holds. How to grapple. That kind of thing.

A five-mile run through the streets of Labyrinth as a start wasn't too out of bounds, although Chelm's running effortlessly beside him was unexpected. After a few blocks, though, he realized he'd needed Chelm, or somebody, just to help him navigate the city. It was hopelessly confusing, and Markus glumly realized that, if he planned to escaped, he'd need some way to find his out.

Five miles at a run is a lot harder than at a jog, and Chelm had pushed him hard on the run. He'd been pretty happy to get back to Chelm's home - House Gray - Chelm had called it, and even happier when Chelm told him he would be learning what Chelm referred to as limbering exercises.

After the run, Chelm brought him into a another room, huge, but empty of almost anything but the dull gray color he'd seen everywhere else in the house. The floor of gray-stained wooden planks was polished, and the walls were whitewashed - if one could call it that - with the same monochromatic shade of gray. One wall was all window, a gray wooden framework holding large squares, nearly a foot on each side, of the clearest glass Markus had ever seen; it was like looking through perfectly clear, untroubled water onto the sweep of the city. Labyrinth, he realized, was larger - much larger - than he'd thought. The opposite wall was almost more amazing, for it was mirrored from about a foot above the floor to a foot below the ceiling - and the ceiling had to be at least fifteen feet. Five huge sections of mirrored glass - each one at least five feet wide, stretching almost thirteen feet up, reflected the dull gray of the room. The remaining walls held a remarkable collection of minotaur-sized weaponry, held on a variety of hooks and catches.

Chelm had Markus face the mirrors while Chelm demonstrated the limbering exercises, which turned out to be a series of movements and positions that verged on impossible - at least for Markus. Chelm demonstrated them with ease, as Markus struggled to pull himself into the right position.

Worse was a vile-smelling (and tasting) concoction - probably the vermifuge - that Chelm had him drink. All of it. Quickly. He'd given him water to follow it, in an oblique admission that the stuff was nasty. And it was, tasting like grass and pine needles that had been stewed in salty sulphurous water. It had upset his stomach, but not nearly as much as the strange contortions Chelm called limbering exercises. By the end of the day, Markus thought that being hitched to a plow would have been easier than those contorted positions.

"It will get easier," was all the roan minotaur would say while adjusting Markus's position to correct it. Even tying himself into knots, though, trying to get more limber wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that after the first hour or so, he was hard. Rock-hard, about-to-fuck-hard, and dripping wet hard. All he could think about was ...

Getting fucked.

By Chelm.

That Chelm was standing over him, touching him, moving his arms, adjusting his legs, and just ... ignoring his obvious aching shaft was even worse. Markus tried to ignore it, tried to shove the salt-pine smell of minotaur out of his mind, tried to keep his mind on the positioning of the strong, muscular limbs instead of the strong limbs themselves. The glisten of light on the viscous liquid thread that swung dizzily down from his shaft was obvious, humiliating proof that it wasn't working.

It was almost more humiliating that Chelm ignored it, and when, at the end of the day, Chelm locked him back onto the bench, Markus thought seriously about begging Chelm to ...

To what, that was the problem. Chelm hadn't asked him to talk, not once, the red minotaur was satisfied with nods and shakes, and didn't even use many words himself. Like this. No. Watch. He wasn't as ... aggressively offensive as Markus's first drill instructor, but he wasn't accepting anything less than perfect, either, stopping Markus once, twice, as many times as it took him to get it right.

Dinner was fresh (still hot!) bread, soaked through with some salty, pungent sauce that tasted of pine and onions, followed by a dish of stewed greens with what he thought was bacon. The flavor was a little unusual, but it was still tasty. Markus would have preferred to have been able to use his hands while he was eating, but he'd been locked back onto the bench where he'd started the day. He wasn't sure if that was because Chelm didn't trust him not to escape, or for some other bizarre minotaur reason. The day with his master - and Chelm's occasional comments - convinced him that the minotaur thought about things differently than a human would.

And maybe that shouldn't surprise him, Markus reflected, but ... it had. And if he were going to escape, he'd need ... he'd need to figure out how not to be chained and locked. Tag wasn't chained down - Tag is the one who'd put his food down, and wiped his mouth clean.

And was currently washing him with a sponge. Markus struggled with asking Tag questions about the minotaur, but that would reveal he knew Greek, and ... and ... Tag couldn't really speak, anyway. And what was that story? Chelm hadn't silenced Zebra, and hadn't even threatened to silence Markus that way - why had he done that to Tag? Markus couldn't be sure, but the more he wondered about it, the more he thought it would turn out to be a good example of minotaur logic.

And then, sponge bath over, Tag began rubbing - no, massaging - oil onto him. It felt good - too good. Slick. Warm. He'd managed to lose his erection while he was eating, and keep his mind off sex - off Chelm, really - but the slick friction against his body brought it back as hard - harder - than ever. It wasn't Tag he wanted to be touching him, though. Tag was attractive, and before his capture - before Chelm, he thought glumly, Markus would have been delighted with Tag's attentions, and all too ready to return them with some attentions of his own. Attentions! He'd throw Tag over one of those delicate gray silk couches and pound him for an hour, or two, or three, if he could stand it. Well, if Markus could stand it; he wouldn't have given Tag much say in the matter.

Any say in the matter, really. Sort of like how Tag was stroking him now; long, sliding strokes that brought to mind what it would feel like to have Chelm over him; have Chelm's manhood at his center, that massiveness slowly pushing into him, taking him. Markus bit his lip, and moaned anyway.

The sound might have been tiny, but the reaction from Chelm - who had been inspecting something - papers? - on his desk was instant. "Tag!" The word was accusatory, and angry. The human pulled back from Markus, as if he'd been ...

Been caught with his hand in the till?

And then Chelm was there, and Tag was thrown across the couch, if not in the position that Markus would have. "I did not give permission for that," he growled. "You were to bathe him. No more."

There was a soft answering grunt, wordless, but with an ineffable sadness.

"No," said Chelm, with finality. "No more. You will sleep on Zebra's hoddle tonight. You may ... will, I think, need to attend the feral at night." The minotaur was kneeling, then - and Markus hadn't even seen him move - staring directly into Markus's eyes. He tried to look away from those dark brown orbs, but he couldn't. The minotaur sighed, and addressed Markus in Latin. "Tag did not have permission to tease you, feral. I had thought I might let him pleasure you, but I cannot, now, because I will not reward his behavior. Still, you pleased me very much today. Do not think it will go unrewarded - I simply cannot reward you properly yet." Chelm's breath smelled of pine and spice, and somehow Markus managed to tear himself away from the gaze.

Those were the last words of the night. Chelm returned quietly to his desk, and when he covered the light, Tag took advantage of the darkness to creep over to Zebra's bench, and settle himself on it. The minotaur himself vanished through another door, which closed with a soft click.

The darkness lessened, slowly, the black fading to darkest gray as Markus's eyes adjusted, slowly, to the faint light coming from the window. Tag was breathing beside him, and Markus wondered ... no. Greek was his only advantage. He would not, could not give it away, not yet.

Markus fell asleep, dreaming of minotaurs. He woke only once, for a short, unpleasant incident of severe cramps in his gut, and then his bowels loosed, spilling liquid foulness across the gray tile under him. That woke Tag, who cleaned the mess up, and returned sleepily to the bench - hoddle, Markus supposed. Tag brushed him once, with a soft sound that meant ... Markus didn't know what it meant. It could have been anything from an apology for last night to an attempt to cheer him up but it sounded well-meant. It was almost enough to make his sorry for the rape fantasy he'd had earlier.

Almost. Markus fell asleep, again, thinking about staring down at the length of Tag's trim body, his legs on Markus's own strong shoulders.

The second morning started as a repeat of the first, save that the oatmeal tasted only like oatmeal. Slices of pear decorated the top of the hot cereal, and again, it was followed by eggs scrambled with onion and mushrooms. The water was clean, and sweet. As Tag removed the bowls, and wiped Markus's face clean, Markus looked up and around, expecting to see Chelm.

But the red minotaur was not there.

"Where is the minotaur?" Markus asked, in Latin, of Tag. Tag just looked at him, and shook his head.

"The Master?" Markus tried again.

Tag just shrugged, and pointed out the window.

Out, Markus guessed, and no way to know when he'd be back, other than later.

Later turned out to be ... an unknowable time later. Less than half a day, longer than an hour. The room had no direct light, so there were no clear shadows with which to judge. He wasn't hungry again, at least when the red minotaur came back in, walking with a certain deliberation that suggested tired to Markus. Chelm let a breath, and then seemed see Markus on the bench - hobble - for the first time.

"Let him out, Tag," he said, and if his body was held stiffly, there was nothing in his voice to suggest anything but the same composed tone he'd had the day before. "Let us see, feral, just how much you recall from yesterday," his manner suggesting that, in fact, Markus would remember nothing but that was as might be expected for such a primitive human.

And although Chelm had to correct him once or twice, Markus thought he'd done pretty well, and as they finished the session, Chelm even said so. "If I had had high expectations, which I admit I did not, you still would have exceeded them. I am pleased, very pleased. As I was pleased yesterday." The minotaur paused, and then sighed. "Zebra ..."

The red minotaur did not finish the thought, whatever it was, but he did take a heavy white leather collar off a shelf, and then clipped a long chain to it. Tag was still busy undoing the buckles that had replaced the locks last night - Markus still wasn't quite sure what the difference between being locked onto that bench and buckled onto the bench was, when there was no way he could get out of either, but the substitution had seemed significant to Chelm. His minotaur-master. From the looks that Tag was surreptitiously giving him, the collar was one of those significant things, too. If Zebra were here, he could ask him, quietly, after Chelm had left for the night. Gone to his bed, if minotaurs slept in beds. Maybe the bench-hobble-whatever was a variant on a minotaur's sleeping arrangements? Or maybe the collar belonged to Zebra?

"Good," the minotaur rumbled, and knelt down in front of him. The pine scent of minotaur exploded around him - whatever Chelm had been doing, it must have been hard in a way that even those tortuous limbering exercises of yesterday had not been. "Now, I imagine that after that session, you're a little tired." Huge, strong hands fastened the collar around his neck. It was a only a little smaller than a warcollar, that some soldiers used to protect their neck, but Markus had never liked wearing one, and he felt strangely confined, almost more tied-up now than he had been on the hobble.

"Feral," Chelm said carefully, "you are now on-leash. There are ... certain expectations of behavior while you're leashed. It will be some time before I take you out in public on-leash, and I'll expect ... well. For now, I just want you to get used to it."

Markus nodded. What else could he do?

The minotaur's hand stroked his hair back, with an odd hesitancy, unlike anything Markus had seen from Chelm before, and then Chelm brushed his fingers against Markus's cheek, once, again, and the third time, Markus flicked his tongue out to lick the finger, just a touch. He wasn't quite sure why he did it - it was a fleeting impulse, and either he took the risk or lose the chance. Maybe it was just that he couldn't bear to lose the chance. He didn't expect Chelm to do anything other than pull back, at best.

He certainly didn't expect the minotaur to use that finger to slide past his lips, deep into his mouth. He dismissed the brief fantasy of biting down, less in fear of what an angry Chelm might to do him, but because it wouldn't get him where he needed to be. Trusted. Let out of the restraints, out of the minotaur's sight. Preferably with some of that money - suns? - that Chelm had mentioned. He hadn't seen it, but there had to be some, somewhere. Accessible. If he were just ... able to move. Until then, he needed to be a good little feral.

Chelm's finger tasted of salt and pine, and Markus was beginning to recognize that as the characteristic of minotaurs. Pine-musk teased his senses with every breath, as Chelm began slowly - deliberately - fucking Markus's mouth with his finger.

Two fingers, and the pine-salt taste was back, stronger than before. Much stronger. Chelm was resting his arm along Markus's back, holding the human to him. The slight dampness of Chelm's pelt was cool against his skin as he teased at the minotaur's fingers with his tongue.

"Unexpected," Chelm said in Latin, almost puzzled, after a moment, thoughtfully, withdrawing his fingers, and wiping them on Markus's back. "Come."

A quick bath - for both of them - followed, in a large bathing-room furnished in the same dreary monochrome as the first room. There were towels of bright red, though, hanging on the graywashed walls. Markus had little time to wonder about the mechanics of the room, or how the minotaurs made warm water flow into a huge fired-ceramic tub glazed with the same smooth glassy gray as the rougher tiles of the floor. He just enjoyed it, as he enjoyed being washed by the red minotaur - who was also rinsing himself off. Chelm completed the batch quickly, toweling himself and Markus off with the towel - which turned out to be huge.

Chelm stood for a moment after hanging the towel back up, and nodded to himself. He pulled open a cabinet, and pulled out a small brown glass bottle. Dripping about a teaspoon of clear liquid into a cup, he twisted a handle on a smaller basin, and filled the cup about half-way with water before turning back to Markus, and handing him the cup.

"Feral, I want you to take a mouthful of this, hold it in your mouth - swish it around - and then spit it out when the tingling gets unbearable. Don't swallow it - it will make you very, very sick. And the longer you can hold it in your mouth, the better. A minute would be fine."

Chelm rinsed the cup out while Markus took the liquid into his mouth. The stuff tasted like - fizz. Just fizz, no other flavor, water and a light fizzing against his tongue and mouth that was slowly getting stronger. He swished the stuff around, following Chelm's directions, and the fizzing sensation turned into a light tingle that grew - quickly - into an almost unbearable buzzing sensation, like his mouth was full of bees crawling about. If this was a test of how much he could endure ...

"That's long enough," Chelm said "More than enough. Spit it out." He did, and the red minotaur handed him the cup again. "Rinse. Drink if you're thirsty." Markus did, and found the strange buzzing going away. And ... in fact, his mouth was going numb.

"Be careful that you don't bite yourself," the minotaur said. "That will pretty much kill all the sensation in your mouth for about six hours." Chelm fastened the white leather collar back around his neck. "Come on. We're going out."

Markus wasn't even out of the house before he realized this was the threatened trip to Aus - the dentist - but he couldn't ask questions when he wasn't even supposed to know what was going to happen. At least ... well, he couldn't feel anything in his mouth at the moment, so maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Twenty minutes of wandering around the streets - twisting streets and bridges and tunnels - gave him a new appreciation for why the minotaurs called the city labyrinth. The city was built in a series of wide, deep crevasses and there seemed to be no direct routes or major thoroughfares, just narrow streets and bridges and a long set of stairs up to a series of ... shops? The streets were filled with humans, mostly, pulling barrows and carts, and fewer minotaurs, some of them overseeing the humans and others looking like they were on unrelated business. It cheered him. Some humans, at least, were not merely trusted to cart things, but they had to know - be taught - something of how to get around in this baffling city-maze. And how to get out.

Aus's workshop was a tiny place, with cool blue tiles and the walls hidden behind soft variegated green fabrics. Aus himself was a smallish minotaur with a uniformly dark brown pelt and he had the largest horns Markus had ever seen - it made him wonder how the minotaur managed to get around. Chelm's horns curled up, compactly, like a ram's might, although they had the smooth texture and appearance of bovine horns. Aus's extended almost directly to either side, perhaps three feet, before the tips turned forward. There was a gold chain with bells hanging from Aus's left horn, looped close to Aus's ear and making a graceful curve down and up to the far end of his horn, and the bells tinkled brightly as Aus turned to the red minotaur. "Chelm!"

"I am on time, I take it?"

"Yesss ..." the smaller minotaur said, suddenly looking uncertain.

"Good." Chelm pulled a brown bottle from his pocket, and handed it to Markus. "Drink. It's actually pretty nasty - bitter - but you won't be able to taste it. Drink all of it."

Markus desperately wanted to ask what it was, but by this point, he could barely move his tongue, much less talk. Even managing to drink the tasteless (fortunately tasteless; he had no doubt that the stuff was as unpleasant as Chelm had described).

"What are you giving him?" Aus asked.

"Lotus extract and poppy syrup. Spiro said he'd need teeth pulled."

"I have my own drugs," the smaller minotaur said, sounding stung.

"I'm sure you do," Chelm replied. "But ... this was measured to his weight. I already had him rinse with rastachia, so you can do the cleaning first."

"Fine," sighed Aus. He turned to Markus. "Into the chair."

"He doesn't speak Greek. Yet."

"Into the chair," the brown minotaur said. "Please wait outside, Chelm."

"But -"

"Wait outside, Warlord." This time, there was no compromise in Aus's voice. The red minotaur sighed, and left.

"There," Aus said, more quietly. "Do you know why you're here?"

Markus shook his head.

Aus nodded. "Chelm isn't one much for explanations," the minotaur said. "Go on, into the chair. I'll explain while I'm working. Until you get groggy, which you will. I might have to do somethings that would hurt - the drink Chelm gave you will ... hmm ... both make it not hurt as much, and make you not care that it hurts. Trust me on this. You'll probably be asleep by the time we're done, and you'll wake up back home."

Markus nodded again.

"Ah. You can talk to me - or you could, if your mouth wasn't numb. Actually, that's for the best too. Open your mouth. Not quite that wide ..." and Aus fiddled with a mirror, sending sunlight into his face, much the way Spiro had done earlier.

"I can see what I'm doing ... hmmm ... well, not as bad as some ferals I've seen lately," Aus said, and his muzzle twisted into a strange expression. "This may feel a bit odd, and if anything hurts, grunt or let me know. Do try to keep your head still, hmm?"

Markus didn't say anything to that, as the brown minotaur proceeded to poke and prod and scrape at his teeth with a variety of implements, and kept up a hard-to-follow commentary in Latin interspersed with incomprehensible Greek when he started talking about the specifics of his toothcraft. After a bit, Markus realized it wasn't just that Aus's talk was confusing ... he himself was having trouble thinking. The brown minotaur seemed friendly enough though, and it was strangely relaxing to sit there, and listen to the words - he wasn't quite sure what they meant, but he felt like he should listen anyway.

And there were a few sharp piercing stabs of pain, that went away quickly. The minotaur - Aus - sounded apologetic, and Markus wondered what for, the pain already forgotten, and then he just couldn't help himself from falling asleep.

Markus's face ached when he woke up, back on the hobble, securely buckled. He groaned, and then twisted in surprise. He looked over, and wasn't surprised to see Tag there. Tag flashed a reassuring smile at him, and then pantomimed something - the rinse and spit he'd done ... how long ago? It had been early afternoon when they'd gone to see Aus, but now ... was it morning?

It didn't matter. He simply said, "Yes, I understand," in his badly-accented Greek and let the whatever it was - ras-something - numb his mouth, but not before he ran his tongue around to discover not three but five missing teeth, two from his upper jaw, and three from his lower jaw.

The lack of pain was, he decided, worth not being able to taste the oatmeal and eggs of his breakfast. His face still hurt, though, and between that and the sheer boredom of being locked down, when Tag offered him another dose of something out of a brown bottle - something meant to drink, Markus took it.

It was the closing of the door that woke him back up - Chelm carrying a sleeping human who had to be Zebra. ?????. He opened his eyes just a little, still feeling muzzy from whatever Tag had dosed him with. He still didn't hurt, though, and he was glad of that. The human was slumped in the minotaur's powerful arms, his shaved head resting against Chelm's chest. It wasn't the evident care of the minotaur that commanded his attention, though, not at first. Zebra's skin was a pale, pale white interrupted by thick irregular lines of shimmering black, branching and reconnecting in a baffling pattern. The minotaur looked across at Tag, saying "Get me a blanket," as the red minotaur draped his human softly across the padded hobble. Chelm fastened him in, right arm, left arm, left leg, right leg, before taking off a thin black leather collar around his neck, and then covered him with a thin fuzzy blanket of the same ubiquitous gray - matched perfectly, now that Markus stopped and thought about it, to everything else in the room. Why would Chelm go to the trouble - and it had to be trouble, tremendous trouble - to match everything to a bland, dull shade of gray?

Chelm stroked the bald head - covered with the same alternating pattern of glimmering black - well, they weren't really stripes, because they weren't regular at all. Markus wasn't really sure how to describe them. Markus wondered, suddenly, why Chelm hadn't had Zebra tattooed with gray instead of black.

"Let me know when they wake. Either one. Zebra gets milk ... and, no, give them both milk. Keep an eye on the feral, make sure it doesn't trouble him." Chelm paused. "Put him back on water if it does. Am I missing anything?"

Markus couldn't see Tag, who was apparently behind him, but Chelm nodded, added "Yes, do that," and went off, through a door that closed very quietly.

Zebra, now that Markus could see him, was a strong-looking man, even slumped unconscious on the leather-wrapped hobble. It was a little hard to see the man away from the strong contrast of his pale white skin and the irregular bright black banding that covered him, but Markus judged he was at least as big as Markus was and undoubtedly stronger than he looked. If he was really the champion wrestler that he'd claimed, of course. Markus didn't doubt it, looking at him, slowly picking out the sharp bulge of hard-corded muscle laying on his arms and legs. This was a powerful man, and Markus felt a hot urge run through him. He shifted a little on the hobble, adjusting his growing length beneath him. The last thing he wanted was Tag running to tell the minotaur that Markus was awake. What he wanted was the chance to talk to Zebra.

Unfortunately, Chelm's return, an hour later, to take the still-sleeping Zebra away thwarted that plan.

Chelm kept Zebra with him for the next three days. Unsurprisingly, Zebra was as good at the contortions of minotaur limbering exercises as Chelm himself, but the morning runs and training sessions didn't provide Markus with the privacy he needed to ask Zebra about any of the questions he had. Chelm kept hinting that they'd start working on actual wrestling, but what they did in the bright training room was work on getting the positions right. That would be followed by food, and then Markus was locked back down on the hobble, and Chelm vanished into the rest of the house with Zebra, not to be seen again until the next morning.

The training sessions were strenuous enough that Markus could sleep most of the time away, but it was still a long time to be confined. Tag was there, to take care of his physical needs, but after being chastised by Chelm, Tag kept his attentions brisk and functional, minimizing any contact. The ridiculous desire he had to be fucked by the minotaur just kept getting worse, and worse, until he was just about ready to break down and beg to be fucked. Only Zebra's presence kept him quiet, since Chelm still hadn't permitted him to talk.

Finally - finally! - Chelm said, quietly, after the morning session, "I think it's time to show our feral how to wrestle."

Zebra - and Markus - helped the red minotaur carry in a huge rolled straw mat, which they proceeded to unroll on the floor of the practice room. The golden-yellow straw had a half-black, half-red circle drawn on it, although it wasn't just half red and half black. The dividing line curved, almost like two tears coming together in a circle. And in the center of the body of each tear, was a circle of the other color - a tiny red circle in the black drop, and a tiny black one in the red.

"There are any number of rules," Chelm said quietly. "For example, the lower-ranked wrestler may take his starting position first, or permit his opponent to. There are three legal starting positions - standing, kneeling, and crouched. There are two legal response positions, different, to each of the three starts. Three starts, six responses. Both of you will start in standing; this is the simplest legal position. Zebra, you're black. Please take the standing start."

Zebra positioned himself on the red circle.

"Notice the legs are slightly bent, the arms held up and out - so - ready to close and grapple. Stand on the black circle - you will be red for this bout - and hold yourself like Zebra. This is the standing response, a legal response for standing and crouched starts."

Chelm watched as Markus adjusted himself. "Good. Again, there are a number of things that are forbidden. You may not hit, although you may overbear. If you do topple your opponent, you must remain - at least some part of you - within the circle. If either of you is entirely out of the circle, that one loses. You may hold or lift your opponent, but you may not drop or throw him. If you let him go, he must be stable on the ground, either on his own feet, or laying on the mat. You may not do anything that causes injury. Biting, for example, is forbidden. Damage to the face or crotch is forbidden. This contest is about strength, skill, and leverage. Do you understand?"

Markus nodded, again.

"Good. Put your arms down for a moment," the minotaur said as he stepped behind Markus. "Here." Chelm slipped his arms under Markus's, and the brought them up and touched them behind Markus's neck. "This is an illegal hold, because it is easy - too easy - for the one held to be seriously hurt. Do not employ it. If it is employed on you, go limp. You will have won the match, because your opponent will have been disqualified. And will probably be punished severely by his owner, and may well be banned from future competition.

"I have spent hundreds of suns in buying and training Zebra, not to mention the hundreds on his decorations," Chelm continued. "I do not expect him to be damaged in a bout. Your opponents represent similar investments by their masters. And this does not even touch on my fondness for Zebra. If I thought he had been deliberately hurt ... I would be very angry. Your opponent, no matter who he is, deserves that same consideration."

Markus nodded again.

"Good. There are more rules, and in the days to come, we will cover them, and the positions, and the niceties of the circle, and the benefit of taking your opponent down on his side of the circle versus your own, and ... for this bout, we won't worry about them."

That, thought Markus, was a relief.

"All you need do is ... yes, Zebra?"

The heavily-tattooed man was gesturing, and then he rubbed his palm against his arm, quickly, once, again.

"Do you think that's needed ..." started Chelm, but he paused as Zebra nodded vigorously. "Why?"

"Master," Zebra said hesitantly. "Dry wrestling is completely different than wet."

The red minotaur considered that puzzling statement for a moment, and then nodded, once, decisively, more to himself than to anyone else. "So it is," he said. "Fetch the oil."

Oil?

Zebra was gone and back in a mere minute, bringing back a large jug. He offered the jug to Chelm, who peered in briefly, and nodded. "It will do."

The minotaur turned to Markus. "Hold still," he said, as Zebra walked over to Markus. Dipping his hand into the jug, he brought it back out, glistening with -

Oil, of course. Markus held himself still as Zebra methodically covered him with oil, wiping a thin coat over his neck, arms, chest, back, and then across and down his legs, and back up, slipping his hand around Markus's now-erect shaft, and giving a subtly pleasureful pull against the sensitive, oil-slicked skin.

"Zebra ..." Chelm said warningly.

Zebra started to offer the jug to Markus, but Chelm cut him off impatiently. "No. Do it yourself." Zebra was a lot faster at oiling himself, Markus noticed, than he'd been while doing Markus.

"Positions," said Chelm, and Zebra set the jug down carefully on the floor, off the mat, before returning to his red circle, and that ready stance. Markus copied it.

"Prepare," said Chelm, and then, a moment later, "Go."

Both of them stood still for a moment, and then Zebra moved cautiously toward Markus, a little closer, a little closer ... Markus lunged, and would have gotten a grip on Zebra but for the slick oil; Zebra pulled easily away, and circled to the left. Markus tried again, and this time, he got a better hold. He pulled Zebra in -

Only to find Zebra moving ferociously into him, grasping at his waist, and pulling him over and down and then suddenly he was on his back, Zebra's head on his chest, one arm pulled up around his left leg tight against his crotch, his other arm across his chest and arm. Impossible. He twisted furiously, but could not get out of the pin.

"That is sufficient; the win is Zebra's," Chelm said. "No, Zebra," the minotaur said, almost immediately. "You may not take the ante."

Zebra let go of Markus, with a look of surprise and ... anger? Betrayal?"

"You won it, yes, fairly," Chelm said, with a sound of rueful amusement. "I will make it up to you. Come."

The black-striped human leaped up, standing hopefully in front of the minotaur, and Chelm caressed his head gently. "Yes .... but first ..." Chelm seemed to blur, and vanish. Even as Markus started to turn his head to look for him, the minotaur's strong hands closed on him, and his arms were pulled up behind him, and buckled into heavy leather restraints. "There," Chelm said. "You may watch."

And Markus did watch, as Chelm strode back over to where Zebra stood, waiting for him. His pants dropped unnoticed to the mat, followed by his shirt and the remainder of his clothing, leaving only the massive form of the red-furred minotaur.

Oh no ...

Markus groaned. He was so hard it ached, he was ready to fall to his knees, to try to fuck the mat, if it had been anything other than sharp, scratchy straw. He'd been longing for almost exactly this, the minotaur aroused and holding him - only Chelm was lifting Zebra up, not him. Zebra's legs, wrapped around Chelm's waist. Zebra, taking the massive length of Chelm within him.

Not Markus.

Markus dropped to his knees, as Zebra gasped with Chelm's entry, and then a low burring sigh of pleasure from the minotaur. Which of them moved first, Markus couldn't tell; whether it was Zebra pulling himself onto Chelm, or Chelm thrusting himself into Zebra -

Markus just felt empty, so achingly empty, and without thinking he tried to take a step forward, but his legs had been chained, too - and when did that happen? - and he could barely manage not to fall over, listening to the quiet slap of oiled flesh striking down on the firm body of the minotaur, the pleasured panting of Zebra, the soft appreciative moans of Chelm. He watched, helplessly wanting, as Chelm lowered Zebra to the mat, and the gentle thrusting turned harder, the pants turning into howls, and Markus could only imagine the feel of the restrained power of Chelm pounding against him, filling him, filling that space inside him that was so empty ... it would hurt, and hurt so good ... and he wanted that hurt so bad ...

Zebra came with a scream of pleasure, and the slight stiffening of the minotaur, combined with a sudden huff of breath let Markus know that the minotaur was pumping his seed deep into the striped human. Zebra's seed spattered across Chelm's chest in four long spurts of sticky white, and Chelm bent down, kissing Zebra deeply, smearing the white seed with the oil still clinging to Zebra's black-and-white skin, mixing with the drops of sweat on Chelm's muscled form. Another few moments, and Chelm pulled himself out of Zebra, softening only slightly as Zebra kissed the minotaur's flesh, tasting it, sucking at it, and then Zebra moved to go higher, only to be stopped by Chelm's hand. The minotaur rose, the human seed on his chest starting to run down, mixing with the drops of oil and sweat.

Five steps to where Markus waited, and Chelm knelt. The massive hand caressed Markus's head, and then pulled him close as the strong smell of pine mixed with the metallic odor of seed, and the deep, earthy musk of minotaur sweat. The minotaur's finger gathered some of the mixed fluids, oil, seed, sweat. Wiped it across Markus's lips, under his nose.

Filling the human's senses with the overwhelming taste and smell and presence of sex and minotaur.

Markus couldn't resist, didn't even try. His toungue slipped out, tasting ...

oh god

Tasting the very essence of minotaur, the sweet and salt pine tang of the sex he wanted and ... he lunged forward, lapping the juices from the minotaur's chest.

"Good boy," Chelm said, a rumbling sound right above his head and a thousand miles away at the same time. Markus didn't care, barely heard, as he ground his face, his tongue, his nose, into the body of the minotaur, trying to take every drop into him, and it just made the aching need to be taken, used, mastered, truly mastered, by this red god of a minotaur that much more desperately worse.

"Eventually," the deep rumble said, in words that would register later, as Markus shook on his hobble, "you will win. And then, my feral, I will reward you."

Author's Note: It has been some time since I had the honor of posting the previous chapter, and I suspect it may be some time until I can post the next. And yet for all that, the next shall be posted, and that, as soon as I can. It is simply that may not be soon at all, and I assure you, no one regrets that more than I.